


Feline In His Habits

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Animal Transformation, Cat Sherlock, Gen, Halloween, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're telling me witches did this to you?" I couldn't quite wrap my head around it. Small wonder. "<i>Witches</i>?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feline In His Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! A snippet.

"You're telling me witches did this to you?" I couldn't quite wrap my head around it. Small wonder. " _Witches_?"

Holmes nodded. I could see in his silver eyes that he was entirely genuine. He leaned forward and butted his head against my upraised hand, and without thinking I began to scritch behind his ears. He stood up on the desk, purring, his tail upright.

"What am I supposed to do about this?" I asked.

Holmes nipped the side of my hand and glared at me, switching his tail back and forth. He sat down again atop the papers scattered across the surface of his desk. His little black paws framed a note he had scribbled down for himself a few nights before, when he was still… himself.

I pulled it out from underneath him. As I read, he hopped down and went to sit by the fireplace.

"I have to go find them," I said, lowering the paper. "I have to solve this case for you." He had folded himself down into a loaf, his paws tucked underneath his lean, black body, his eyes half-closed. He dipped his head in acknowledgement. "What if they do the same to me as they've done to you?"

There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. The most brilliant man I had ever known sat before me in the body of a cat. He opened one eye, and then the other, and raised himself into a long stretch. Then he came over to rub against my shins.

"You're right," I said. "I can't let you stay like that." Oh, God, what if the real Holmes were to open the sitting room door right now and find me talking nonsense to a feline? I waited. Nothing happened. Holmes the cat hopped up into my lap and looked earnestly into my face.

It was him. I couldn't deny it.

I folded the note away into my pocket. 

"Off we go, then," said I to the cat.

He jumped down again and I went to put on my overcoat and my hat. It was nearly November, and though the days had been unseasonably mild lately the nights were well and truly chilly. I held the sitting room door open for Holmes, and he preceded me down the seventeen stairs to the street door.

I had not Holmes's skill in flagging down a hansom, and after a few had passed me by unseeing Holmes bumped against my leg, pushing me back half a step from the edge of the pavement, and sauntered out into the street, tail upraised. At once a cab came to a rattling halt, its horse high-stepping to avoid trampling him. Holmes darted out of the way, and as I got in he jumped delicately up as well.

The cabman steadied his horse and we started off, the address of a coven of witches in my pocket, and a cat who had been a detective settling into my lap.


End file.
